


Ruin

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coward isn't as prepared for this ritual as he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruin

Blackwood is waiting for him when he returns from the House session, settled into one of the high backed chairs, his eyes glinting in dim candlelight. "My lord," he says, and wills his hands steady; he should not be so surprised by these unannounced visits. Nor so eager for them. 

Blackwood does not rise, but although his posture is casual, relaxed, his eyes are intense. "Coward," he says, his voice sending shivers along Coward's spine. "I have a ritual for you to learn."

His heart is thrumming at the thought, rising to his throat, and he speaks past the obstruction in tones that could only be described as breathy. "Of course, my lord. For when?"

"Sunday," Blackwood answers, and hands him a heavy, ornate book. Coward holds it, reverently, and Blackwood turns to the appropriate pages, the Latin densely written, unadorned by leaf or careful illumination, no woodcuts accenting the words. Coward reads, muttering to himself over unusual terms, until he stumbles across a certain line, his cheeks flushing at the mere suggestion it gives. Blackwood is watching him carefully, and Coward thinks that he was waiting for this. He reads on, and his mind is flooded with images that leave him wide eyed and panicked. He sets the tome down with shaking hands, and speaks without turning to look at his lord. 

"I…I have not heard of this ritual before," he says, rather than speaking the questions whirling round his head, but Blackwood answers them anyways, and it is terrifying sometimes, how much he knows.

"Mm. It has been useful to have a virgin participant; the dichotomy of pure body with defiled mind is a powerful lure. But the time for such subtle courting has passed; we must offer them something far more appealing if we are to request such grand favors." 

Coward is taken aback by how matter of fact Blackwood is about this. How casual. He knows the man has committed unspeakable acts in his pursuit of power; but still, to plan to commit such acts with the slightest qualm…

He is taking too long to speak, he knows, and he does not miss the way Blackwood's eyes narrow. "And if I am unwilling?" he whispers, though he knows the answer already.

Blackwood rises behind him, and he can feel him draw closer. "It will only create a more potent mix. But I do not wish to break you," he says, his breath ghosting the back of Coward's neck, and his hand is reaching around to brush his ear, fingertip tracing the curl of it, sliding down the line of his jaw, pressing against the too quickly beating pulse. "Do you really wish to disappoint me?"

And no, when he puts it like that, no, he doesn't want Blackwood to look at him with anything other than approval. Maybe that is what he truly fears; not the defilement of his body, but that he will fail the process, that Blackwood will turn away from him, that he will no longer hold a place closer to Blackwood's heart than any other. 

"I will learn it," he whispers, and Blackwood turns his head with gentle fingers, to place a kiss at the beating pulse of his neck. 

 

Blackwood leaves shortly after, without another touch; and Coward is not sure if he is relieved or disappointed. 

 

The manuscript is descriptive enough to make him blush, and yet, oddly unspecific. The ritual must be preformed on a Sabbath, a true Sabbath in accordance with the turning of the moon, beginning precisely at midnight, and start to finish, must last for six hours. It is daunting, when he stops to think about it; but he is not allowing himself to fully absorb what he will be doing, focusing his attention of the words he must memorize, the symbols he must draw, the intrusion he must…ah. No, not that. He closes his eyes, fighting away the flickering images, carefully slowing his gasping breaths. He must not fail.

It will be difficult.

 

He prepares himself with care, twisting symbols inked on with admirably steady hands, reciting cursed Latin prayers under his breath, and he thinks he might do his lord proud after all. He steps into the circle, and though he knows others are watching, he feels the weight of only one pair of eyes. Blackwood nods to him, and he lets loose a breath he hadn't been aware of holding. His eyes travel from the altar to the table, familiar objects reassuring. "Show me," Blackwood commands, and Coward loosens the front of his robe to reveal his chest, dominated by a red pattern of symbols and words, an invitation for manifestation through his flesh. Blackwood presses his hand against it, tracing the curl of text. "Good," he says, and raises the small knife from the table. 

Coward stiffens, almost jerks away, because the vowing doesn't come till later, and as it comes to rest against inked skin, he jerks away, uncomprehending, frightened. Blackwood catches one raised wrist, his hand tightening enough to grind bones together, and Coward's eyes dart to it. Slowly, the grip eases, and now Blackwood is merely holding his wrist, gently, like a living moth. "You cannot wish to back out now," he says, and he sounds so dismayed that Coward is shaking his head no before he thinks. "I have made a few modifications," Blackwood says, "but you must trust me."

He trusts, him, he does, it's the magic that he fears, but there is no good way to explain that to someone he has never feared. He swallows, and when Blackwood tugs gently at his captured wrist, he gives in. 

Blackwood sets the knife to the inked marks again, and Coward grits his teeth against the pain, each line becoming darker, liquid, as the knife raises his careful scribing again in blood. His lips are flecked from blood from where he has set teeth against them in an effort not to make a sound, and he finds himself concentrating on the small circle Blackwood is making with his thumb, along the edge of if jaw, oddly gentle, almost reassuring. 

When Blackwood finishes, he presses his thumb against Coward's bottom lip, teases it out from between Coward's teeth and swipes away the blood. It wells up again a moment later, and Blackwood licks the smear on his thumb before he lowers his mouth to Coward's. Coward shivers, and when Blackwood draws away, his mouth is stained with red. He presses his lips to Coward's forehead, his closed eyes, and leaves behind faint bloodstains. 

Coward feels a rising wave of fear as Blackwood leads him to the altar and places one wrist in the restraints newly attached to the top. Feels it, and does his best to suppress it, only the quickening of his breath betraying him as he is trapped, caught, his chest pressed against cold stone. The cold sets him to shivering, the rush of cool air hitting his back as slides off his shoulders to pool on the ground. 

He is shaking, and it is not because of the cold. 

"Coward," Blackwood says, quietly. "Are you afraid?"

"No, my lord," he whispers. Yes, yes, he is afraid, he is terrified, he is petrified that he will fail, that Blackwood will turn from him. 

Blackwood rests a hand on the top of Coward's bowed head for a moment, then resumes the ritual. He must remain here for an hour, while Blackwood alternates chants with the other members of the circle; at the end of the hour, Coward will be used for the first time, offered the first time, debased. 

It is the longest hour Coward has ever known. 

The cold seeps into his bones, bringing terror with it, winding him up until his fear is at a fever pitch, until he is a breath from screaming for mercy. 

Blackwood goes silent, and there is nothing hanging in the air but the soft rustle of fabric as the circle turns, leaves, granting him the smallest mercy of privacy. But only for the first time. Blackwood steps closer, closer, touches his shoulder and his hand is so warm against Coward's skin. His body is even warmer, the heat radiating off him as he leans over Coward, chest hovering above his back where he is bowed over the altar, overpowering him. Coward is shaking, barely biting back the small, pathetic noises trying to crawl up his throat. 

"Coward," Blackwood whispers, though there is no one left to hear them. "Look at me."

Coward turns his head, glancing over his shoulder. His eyes meet the muted hazel of Blackwood's eyes. 

"Are you afraid?"

He knows what is coming. He has read through the ritual, multiple times, terrified and fascinated. It is the first offering, the defilement of an innocent. It will hurt. It is _meant_ to hurt. It is meant to make him beg for mercy, for freedom, for death. It is meant to reduce him to an object, to a base creature. It is meant to break him. 

It does not matter that Blackwood has told him he does not wish to break Coward. It is what is meant to happen here. 

"Yes," he breathes. 

Blackwood's eyes darken. "Good," he says, the word a pale wisp of air, and Coward cannot, _cannot_ -

When Blackwood touches him, he cries out, flings himself against the restraints, uselessly, fights and screams and pleads as Blackwood slides into him, sobs in pain and fear and mortification as Blackwood ignores him, uses him, pins him down and fucks into him hard and fast and harsh, intrusive in a way Coward has never known and never wants to know again. The only words from his lips are fragments of the chant, no affection lingering in his touch. 

By the time it is over, Coward is sobbing, face pressed into the stone, curled in on himself and desperately trying to hide. He flinches when Blackwood rises from him, stands over him like some dark god of judgment. Coward can't see, refuses to see, but he's sure there's a frown on Blackwood's face, that there's disappointment waiting for him. 

There's a sudden warmth; when he raises his head, he finds Blackwood's cloak draped over him. "The first time is for ruin," Blackwood says to him, crouched down on Coward's level. His hand is cupped around the base of Coward's skull, steady, gentle.

The first time is for ruin. The second time, they will uncuff him, will not leave the room but merely turn their backs, still able to hear his pants and cries; the second time is for willingness. 

The third time, they will watch. The third time, they will hear more than fearful sounds. The third time, they will be able to judge him. The third time, Blackwood will not hurt him, and Coward will beg, not for mercy. The third time, he will _want_ it. 

The third time is for corruption, and he cannot imagine it, as he is now. 

"They will return shortly," Blackwood says, his thumb stroking the corner of Coward's jaw. _Compose yourself,_ is the silent suggestion. 

"Don't leave me," Coward whispers. Begs. 

Blackwood leans in, rests his forehead against Coward's. "I won't," he promises.


End file.
